Rock, Paper, Shotgun

21/12/2012 at 20:45 LionsPhil says:

Indeed. For those of you struggling (it may help you to imagine the translated phrases spoked in the level, even tones of a Teach Yourself Flemmish instructional cassette tape):

Malik’s the name given me after my pawdad who first flushed Idaho dirt knuckles sometime ‘afore nineteen twenty two.

My name is Malik. It was named by my father, who has been around since 1922.

I’s born out of Beatrice Beula Ann Metasky Hendersnuse and right onto sixteen foot of December snow.

My mother is Beatrice, and I was born during a snowy December.

Our Jr. obliged himself in the otter-slick boil of a June Tuesday night the almanac called “the devil’s own bathtub”.

Our child was born one Tuesday in June.

Strange year already what with the bears nestin’ up under the crops, given’ them the ‘tater shakes. Then there was the outbreak a’ land salmon that just—just made things worse.

Unusual and unfortunate events had transpired that year.

That put a hurt right on us that we han’t felt since ’37 with pappy’s potato pop bust up.

We had not suffered such difficulties since 1937, when my father’s potato-based drink efforts were stopped.

Y’see, potato pop’s ground pugs gone spoilt, rung out with barrel oil mixed with bacon milk cut with paint crackle and a woodspoon a pool shock.

Potato pop is made from rotten potatoes, flavourings, and preservatives.

Pawdad’s a one built that mix.

Potato pop was invented by my father.

Some folks dash it with low burn diesel but that ain’t Hendersnuse.

Some people make potato pop with diesel in it, but that is not in keeping with my family traditions.

My pappy and paw paw used to shed brew it and sell it thirty cent a jar ’till the law came along with a stack-dime shooter and a piece a paper sayin’ a clutch of townsfolk took blind on the stuff.

My father and grandfather used to run a microbrewery for potato pop on their premises, which they sold for thirty cents per jar. This practice was stopped by armed police, who arrived with a warrant granted on the basis of the beverage causing blindness in the local population.

That’s all stick-chuck, though.

This tale was an irrelevant aside.

First time I saw that gnat of a dug nugger I was lookin’ for my nip-shears and come up on him nestled eight fingers deep a’ feed hose.

I first saw our tiny potato son while looking for my tools. It was buried deeply in the irrigation plumbing.

The mi’t I looked into all those eyes I knew he weren’t no normal spud.

I was able to rapidly determine that it was not a normal potato.

It took us a flick to figure a rightful for our Junior.

It took us a while to work out the right occupation for our child.

Couldn’t pull plow on account of his condition.

He could not operate a plow because he was a potato.

He weren’t worth a fix a’ box marbles for house chores neither.

He could not perform household chores because he was a potato.

My wife Merma was a one to show him the dancin’ when he’s just a tot.

My wife, Merma, took it upon herself to teach him to dance while he was still a small child.

His feet weren’t put too right so he just sorta’ jumped here’n'ere a bit, but he loved it so we just let him be.

He could not dance because he was a potato.

Even though he looked a pack mule chewin’ bumblebees.

The appearance of him jumping around in an unco-ordinated fashion was comical.

Merma wanted to put the learnin’ on him just herself, keep him away from the other boys.

Merma wanted to home-school him to keep him isolated from other children.

Cain’t never could see him as nuthin’ but my own kin, though, and had ta’ treat him such which meant sendin’ him off for regular schoolin’.

I, however, could only see him as one of my own, and as such was compelled to give him a normal upbringing at a state school.

The other boys, mosta’ their paws’s chunkrut farmers, too, so they’s was keen to tatemaws just fine, but they ain’t never seen a totter plop square in the booksroom with ‘em an—s’pose it din’t set right.

The other children were mostly the sons of farmers as well, so were accustomed to the existence of potatoes. However, seeing a potato sitting in the classroom with them presumably caused them a degree of cultural shock.

They made a fool of him somethin’ fierce.

The bullied the everloving crap out of him.

Didn’t stop fer the rest a his schoolin’.

The bullied the everloving crap out of him for a long time.

A few times a year, somebody would butter him up but good.

A popular prank was to butter him, because he was a potato.

I remember one boy who jugged a gallon a his maw-dad’s brown gravy ‘n doused our Junior like mater paste on a hornet’s nest.

One particular incident involved a boy carrying a gallon of his parents’ gravy to school and pouring it all over my son, because he was a potato.

Rest a the day he were hounded by miter bats, pickin’ and a chunkin’ bits as big as Lincoln quarters outta’ his head.

This lead to him being assaulted by ravenous wildlife.

Didn’t help none he wouldn’t quit dancing.

I am concerned that my son is not a real man.

Shoulda’ kept him on the farm. He belongs on the farm.

I am a failure as a father.

Where is he now?

I wish I knew. I really do.

Everything has fallen apart.

He just left this.

It is all of him I have left.

I hope he finds it. For all our sake.

I am worried that it is all of him which is left.